


October Gore Drabble Challenge

by Zodiac



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Amputation, Asphyxiation, Blood, Body Horror, Body Modification, Decapitation, Drabbles, Eye Trauma, Gen, Gore, October Gore Art Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zodiac/pseuds/Zodiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles done for the <a href="http://crevangrietje.tumblr.com/post/32658857554/october-gore-art-challenge">October Gore Art Challenge</a>. Mostly Welcome to Night Vale, but there's some other miscellaneous fandoms thrown in as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amputation/Limb Loss (WTNV)

**Author's Note:**

> So here's a bunch of drabbles I wrote for the October Gore Art Challenge and ended up not posting here until now. I didn't get around to finishing all the prompts because school kept me busy near the end of October, but I may end up finishing these up if I get in the mood. The titles of each chapter include the prompt that the drabble revolves around in addition to the fandom while the notes at the beginning of each chapter has a summary of what happens in it.
> 
> This chapter is a drabble involving Carlos the scientist stuck in a scene practically out of Gulliver’s Travels, just a hundred times worse.

Had he not been in a severe amount of pain, Carlos would have had a hearty laugh about how similar his situation was to  _Gulliver’s Travels_.

As it was, he was indeed in quite a lot of pain, the sensation radiating outward from several wounds in his chest that lay hidden beneath his bloodstained flannel shirt, crippling him with the sheer intensity of it. Not that he could move, anyway. Tiny, but impossibly strong threads kept him bound to the floor of the cave he had so very mistakenly barged his way into in his haste to prove his hypothesis correct. He was slowly bleeding out all alone there, trapped beneath the pin retrieval area of lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.

But the tiny civilization he disturbed would not allow him such a serene death.

The threads holding his left arm down suddenly tightened, cutting rivulets into his sleeves and skin, criss-crossing streams of blood oozing up past them. He drew in a hissed breath as they burrowed their way deep into his flesh. The pain was there, yes, but it was nothing like the gaping holes in his chest pumping out his vital fluids; it was bearable.

That statement did not hold true for long.

There was a sudden force pulling at his arm, yanking it away from his body with force greater than any normal human being, much less a tiny person or group of people, ever could generate. As he threw his head back to howl out at the force separating his arm from its joint, his eyes caught a glance of a crane-like machine, probably a little shorter than his knee, pulling on one of the threads tied around his arm, miraculously not breaking it with the force it used in tugging at his arm. He quickly shut his eyes against the sight as the pain grew to be too much, cries rising in volume exponentially every second that force grew stronger. His body spasmed, trying to do its best to squirm out and away from the danger it was in and failing miserably at the one task it was so desperately attempting to accomplish.

He heard it happen before his shocked mind was able to process it.

There was a wet, meaty tearing sound, the noise of muscles and tendons, ligaments and blood vessels unwillingly separating from one another. There was the shredding of cloth being ripped as his lab coat sleeve was torn off along with the arm it was housing and then a heavy thump as the now-disembodied limb fell lifeless to the stone floor of the cavern.

And Carlos screamed. He screamed until his lungs hurt from the strain, until his brain grew muggy and murky from oxygen deprivation, and until, mercifully, his mind shut down altogether from sheer shock and blood loss, leaving him to fill the tiny city’s streets with his escaping life blood.


	2. Decapitation (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Kevin and his favorite intern, Vanessa.

The day that the Desert Bluffs Community Radio Station was plunged into an eternal slumber beneath a blanket of warmth and love created by a Smiling God was a day that remained buried within Kevin’s mind even through all the re-education, all the times his brain had been scrubbed raw by StrexCorp employees.

That day was immediately after the very first time he had succumbed to the brainwashing, the very first time the Smiling God had graced him with Its presence, and the very first time that his eyes had screamed in protest from that otherworldly light that shone upon them. Screaming was bad. Protesting was bad. Therefore, his eyes were simply plucked from his skull, joining everyone and everything else that refused to go along with what StrexCorp wished.

His intern at the time, Vanessa, did not seem to appreciate that one bit.

She sang in such a peculiar fashion when he came into work that day, all high-pitched and piercing, and she was working herself up quite badly in the process of it, eyes darting this way and that, muscles quaking beneath her supple skin. Kevin was pretty sure he hadn’t heard a single person sing  _quite_  like that before.

It was such a lovely performance that he simply  _had_  to reward her in some way. A hug would suffice, he thought as he advanced upon her. Yes, a nice,  _tight_  hug would be just the thing to calm that quaking of hers, to soothe the poor dear while also giving her the reward that she deserves for her exquisite performance.

His fingers reached out towards her, or, more specifically, towards her vulnerable throat. They snaked around her windpipe, squeezing regardless of her hands scrabbling at his wrists, at her wide-eyed gaze bulging out at him like a deer caught in headlights. They squeezed regardless of tendons, muscles, or even bone, clamping down on her neck harder and harder, far past the point when a sickening crack that had to have been her spinal cord snapping reached his ears. Even though he could feel no more movement beneath his fingers, his grip still tightened until blood welled up between his fingers. And then, he yanked sharply upwards, messily separating the lifeless head from the equally lifeless body in a shower of blood as the carotid artery ruptured, unleashing its crimson payload everywhere.

Kevin chuckled softly as he stood there holding the head of his dead intern, cradling it in his grasp. After a few moments, he crossed the room over to his desk, delicately settling the head onto it like any average desk ornament. “There you are, Vanessa. I do hope you enjoyed that. Now, I believe I have a bit of  _redecorating_  to do around here to suit Strex standards. If you’ll excuse me…”

After that day, Vanessa was silent most of the time, though she would sometimes pipe up with a joke or two. Sometimes, she would speak clearly. Sometimes, if Kevin listened closely enough, he swore that she was singing again, that wonderful wailing shriek punching its way through those pristine pearly teeth of hers.


	3. Piercings/Body Mod (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Strex punishing Cecil immediately following Parade Day.

“You look so much better like this, you know. Though, I suppose that is a subjective statement. Well, you at least  _sound_  better, that’s for sure.”

Cecil slumped forward into the chair he had been tied to,  _his_  chair, in  _his_  radio booth, of all chairs in existence he could have possibly been bound to. He whimpered as much as his equally-bound lips would allow, the pain of his punishment beginning to overwhelm his sheer rebelliousness. Five sunshine-golden rings had been embedded in both his upper and lower lips, clamped shut at where his lips joined together, effectively welding them together and preventing him from speaking. Slowly, he straightened himself back up, glowering at the intruders who had done this to him, doing his best not to frown and agitate the tender flesh around his mouth, the muscles there twitching as both sparks of pain and command signals from his brain shot through them.

On his desk sat Lauren Mallard, legs demurely crossed at the knee, a bloodied hollow medical needle being twirled in her hand. Beside her stood Kevin, a plastic bag filled with more of the same rings in his lips jingling cheerfully away in his twitching grasp.

“But you’re all asymmetric now.” Lauren cooed, pushing herself off of the desk and standing up. “And we just can’t have that, not after you attempted to organize a rebellion with that damn—ahem— _darling_  voice of yours. We have to make you  _perfect_  in order to fully  _reward_ you for doing something like that, don’t we, Kevin?”

“Why, yes, we simply  _must_!” Kevin agreed with a mouth that was far too similar to Cecil’s to house that happy voice of his, digging another of those rings out of the bag and presenting it to Lauren. “It was such a good attempt that we would feel just  _awful_  if we didn’t!”

Taking the ring into the palm of the hand that also held the needle, Lauren advanced upon the bound radio host, firmly grabbing his wriggling chin in her free hand. “Now, Cecil, just stay still,” She began, lining the needle up against his bottom lip, “and let us  _reward_  you!”

Cecil threw his head back and screamed as the needle pierced through his skin for the eleventh time that day, the rings holding his mouth shut reducing the cry to a mere agonized moan instead. The needle punched through his lip as easily as it had the previous times, and he could taste his own blood as it flowed into his mouth. The needle slipped out of the wound only to be shoved back into his skin less than an inch above the hole it had just made. His body grew slack in his bonds as he only let out a dull whimper this time, dimly feeling another golden ring being slid into the new holes in his lips, closing completely with a soft “snap”, adding yet another barrier for him putting his wonderful, blessed voice to its proper use.

“There!” Lauren said as she put her hands on her hips, surveying her perfect work with pride. “I do believe you’re ready for your  _new_  job, Cecil.”


	4. Doctors/Surgery (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Carlos taking a tour of the Night Vale general hospital for science.

The Night Vale General Hospital, like most other places around the town, was weird. Also like most other places around town, it tended to contain a large deal of screaming, terrified people at any given moment. Unlike most of those other places in town, there were actual doctors present in the hospital.

How they attained their title, Carlos would never know, nor did he think he wanted to.

Carlos had decided to take a tour of the hospital in Night Vale because medicinal science was a category of science and, if there was one thing in Night Vale he wanted to figure out, it was the science—all of it.

What he saw there could not be classified as science on any level.

Every single doctor was caked in blood. Though a good deal of it seemed to gather around bracelets on all of their wrists for some reason, there was still enough that hadn’t been attracted to their hands to make them look like they had just been in the midst of several high-velocity blood splatters, which they may very well have been. Even worse, they were still going about their day as though they weren’t covered in blood, cheerfully conversing with their coworkers as though they weren’t violating several health and safety codes while doing it.

Speaking of safety, the very concept was nonexistent there.

Gloves seemed to be worn only when the doctors preferred them on, most forgoing them altogether as they examined their patients or plunged wrist-deep into their abdominal cavities. Every patient was required to sign a waiver before treatment stating that any unwanted additions or subtractions to or from their body were entirely their problem now and they would have to pay out of their own pockets in order to fix the problems the doctors caused in the first place.

And the methods they used to treat the patients were medieval at best. Anything from the odd species of leech that is found around Night Vale to implements more suited towards torture than healing were utilized in the doctors’ work. While he was touring the place, a doctor paused in hacking away at a patient with what looked to be a tetanus-ridden bow saw to wave at him, blood and bits of flesh falling from the saw as he lifted it up.

Carlos fainted at the gruesome sight before his head even came close to hitting the ground.

When he came to, he had numerous doctors hovering around him, sharing concerned glances across his body. Upon awakening, they immediately fluttered worryingly over him, shooting a barrage of questions at him to assess his mental state. Once he had calmed them down sufficiently with a positive answer to every one, one last question asked if he was ready to continue his tour of the hospital.

That was the only question he answered negatively. Excusing himself from the tour, he thanked everyone he had met along the way before leaving as quickly, yet as casually, as he could manage.

If there was one thing he learned from this little excursion, it was why he hadn’t specialized into becoming a surgeon.


	5. Choking/Asphyxiation (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about the part of Cassettes that was actually on cassettes.

There should not have been flickers at the edges of his vision, fleeting movements of something he could not even begin to guess the identity of. There should not have been times when he felt a presence other than that of the Faceless Old Woman when he swore he was entirely alone except for her. Above all, there most definitely should not have been a flickering, seething shadow looming behind him in his reflection.

And yet, there was.

The teenager going by the name of Cecil Gershwin Palmer just stared at the  _thing_  that should not have been in his reflection, muscles entirely frozen except for the ones needed for basic survival, fearful that any movement he made would provoke the intruder to assault him. Thankfully, it seemed content to stare right back at him, numerous depressions in its shadow of a body seeming to serve as its eyes, the hollow pockets of black nothingness all swiveling and focusing on him. Seeing it do nothing hostile as of yet, Cecil smiled, his lips beginning to form the starting of a cheerful greeting to his new guest.

That was when it struck out.

The words died on his lips as a shadowy limb coiled around his throat and  _squeezed_ , the deathly cold appendage cutting off his air supply. Making a pathetic croaking sound in lieu of words, Cecil shot his arms up to try to claw the strangling limb away to no avail. As he fought and gasped for air, the shadows moved forward to curl around him and he panicked, feeling that horrible, unnatural chill engulf him more fully. His brain was acting purely on instinct now, screaming at him to just break away and choke down some air before the lightheadedness became too much for him.

But he couldn’t. He simply did not have the strength to pry the shadow beast away from him. His brain grew foggy as the short amount of oxygen he had had in him was depleted, gasps for precious, precious air becoming shorter, but more desperate.

Then, as his struggles became even more feeble and sluggish, the shadow beast raced forward, pouring into his gaping mouth and smothering him with its sheer presence in him. His eyes widened as he fell to his knees, fingers scratching at his now-freed throat, futilely trying to dispel the creature forcing its way into his mouth.

Unfortunately for him, the inky blackness clawing its way into him still cut off his flow of oxygen and he swayed on his knees, on the verge of passing out from lack of air. The last thing he thought as his brain was swallowed by unconsciousness and his eyes fluttered shut on the view of the last few wisps of the beast slipping into his mouth was that the only thing more terrifying than seeing the devil was no longer being able to see the devil.


	6. Stitches/Self-administered medical help (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Carlos walking in on Cecil giving himself a routine heart examination. Based on the community health tips from one episode.

“Carlos, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Cecil, no, there is absolutely no way that this is okay! It just… It’s not medically sound!”

Carlos raked his fingers through his curly mop of hair, trying his best to not hyperventilate out of sheer horror from what he had walked in on. He had just gotten home and, there in the living room, Cecil, his dear, sweet boyfriend, had been messily stitching up a vertical gash in his chest. During the initial panic, where Carlos couldn’t help but notice that Cecil’s sternum had been cleaved in half through the half-sewn up hole in his chest, the radio host managed to get him settled down on the couch before he could faint despite the fact that blood was still bubbling up out of his chest. He just sat there for several moments, shocked brain trying to gather his racing thoughts into some form of coherence, but all he could manage for quite a while was croaks about how impossible this should be and how Cecil shouldn’t be able to stand or do much of anything.

So, Cecil decided to lead the conversation for the most part.

“Yes, it is okay, Carlos.” He said nonchalantly as though something like this happened every day, continuing to sew up his chest with the dark purple thread that he had on-hand. “I’m just giving myself a routine heart exam as approved by the Greater Night Vale Medical Community, so calm down, sweetheart. I’ll be just fine once I finish stitching myself up.”

“Cecil, that’s not how—“ Carlos cut himself off as he saw a lump of bloodied flesh on a plate on their coffee table, the mass still pulsating and twitching slightly. “Cecil, babe, is that…  _Is that your heart_?”

“Hm?” Casually turning his head slightly to look where Carlos was, he grinned shyly. “Ah, um, yeah. I was planning on cooking it up for dinner tonight, you know, as part of the examination procedure and everything. That is, unless you were planning on making dinner…?” He paused in his sewing, hoping to enjoy his boyfriend’s cooking that night.

“I… Um… Yeah, I think I can cook up something tonight.” Slowly, Carlos leaned up to hesitantly peck Cecil’s cheek. “Just… put your heart back in your chest, alright?”

“Oh no, don’t you worry about that.” He explained, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’ll grow back on its own sometime here.”

“Ah-alright. If you say so…” Still a bit stunned, Carlos rose to his feet, leaving his humming, sewing boyfriend alone to go to the kitchen.

After all, he simply wasn’t ready to literally receive Cecil’s heart as a gift of affection yet.


	7. Falling (TWEWY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super-spoilery TWEWY drabble about Sanae Hanekoma after the Long Game.

He supposed, after everything he had done, he truly deserved this.

He had put the very city he had been charged with looking over in danger, had utilized forbidden techniques to achieve his goals, had dragged bystanders into his plans, and even plotted the assassination of his own Composer, if such an extreme act of betrayal would prove to be necessary.

And now, for his list of crimes that no Angel should ever have, Sanae Hanekoma was being punished.

He had been found, as he knew he eventually would be, and forced up to the Higher Plane, where he willingly accepted any punishment that his higher-ups might decide for him. Soon enough, he wished that he had not been so foolish in his previous actions.

By heavenly will, his wings, so pure and so very much a source of pride, were crushed, rendered utterly useless by the divine strength willing them to be just that. With shattered wings drooping limply from his shoulder blades, he was cast out of the Higher Plane, falling in both frequency and altitude with no hope of increasing either one again.

The air roared in his ears during his descent, drowning out his thoughts about how this was how he was bound to end up after everything he had done with the natural sound of wind moving far quicker than it ever should. The sheer force of it pinned his broken wings to his body, yanking out his delicate feathers as it blew through them, leaving the lone pinions to peacefully flutter their way to the ground above him.

He did not scream. Screaming was for those who wished to alleviate their pain by presenting it to the world in the form of sound waves. Screaming was for those who desired help, for those who were attempting to seek out help.

Screaming was for those who did not deserve their circumstances.

So he did not scream. Not even the inkling of one clawed its way out of him even as his body dashed against the cold, unforgiving concrete of the very city he had spent his unlife nurturing and protecting because he deserved the harsh treatment just as Shibuya deserved a better guardian than he.


	8. Undead/Zombie attack (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Cecil getting overrun by weird Night Vale zombies at the radio station.

“Listeners, if any of you out there can still be considered alive by scientific or magical means, then I am telling you that you are not alone in your current state of being. I am still sound in mind and body and I am broadcasting from the community radio station. Though… to be honest, listeners, I am unsure of how long that will last.”

Something had happened that day in Night Vale—as they tend to do in that strange, wonderful little town—and, whatever it was caused the corpses of the dead to rise with new life once again. This was rather impressive considering that the usual method of disposing of bodies in Night Vale was cremation, so there were floating clouds of the ashes of the dead flitting about. Now, this wouldn’t have been so bad had those ashes not flown straight into the mouths of the gaping populace and used whatever dark and ancient magics that had bewitched them to begin with to gain control over actual bodies. Whatever magics were in control of them seemed to have some rudimentary knowledge of how the human body was supposed to function, but it was similar to the faded memories of controlling a fleshy body that a long-dead person would have, leaving them to lope and stumble around like zombies in a cheesy horror movie.

But this was no cheesy horror movie.

Their strength was superhuman, mortal strength bolstered by the powers possessing them, and their appetite was monstrous, teeth easily rending the flesh of any creature unlucky or foolish enough to cross their path, including others of their ilk.

Unfortunately for Cecil, they retained their memories of where the radio station was.

And his broadcast led them right to his doorstep.

“I can hear a tidal wave of bodies banging against the station doors outside, ebbing and rising over and over again in precise, fluid motions. I will remain here at the microphone as long as I can, listeners, because it is my duty as a radio professional to update you on the news, no matter what may occur, but with the way that the undead horde is pounding away at the doors, I do not know how much longer I can remain here. The bloodstone doors are holding for now. After all, they were built in the middle of a non-undead assault on mostly-free speech, so they can handle a bit of angry protestors pounding away at them, but— Oh no, I hear the doors opening. They must have discovered that they could use the blood of their victims that they’re coated with as a sacrifice to open the door. I, um, I think now would be a good time to go to the weather!”

The first few dulcet tones of the day’s weather played before it suddenly cut back to Cecil, attempting to reason with the flesh-hungry horde that had intruded into his booth, metallic rattling sounds under his voice as he scrambled at his desk in an attempt to put distance between him and then.

His useless pleas transformed into guttural gurgles and wet, messy splatters as his once fellow citizens descended upon him.


	9. Skeletons/Bones (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about a horrific version of Kevin meeting Cecil in the area within the vortexes connecting their stations.

At first, Cecil merely assumed that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

At second, when he realized that his brain was in fact correctly processing the vision before him, he blinked, mind attempting to rationalize what he saw in front of him.

At third, when his brain outright rejected any guess as to what he could possibly be seeing, he screamed, finally recognizing what he saw.

Before him, standing in the world between vortices he had foolishly ventured into, was a strained tarp of skin haphazardly stretched over the twisted bone framework holding together a creature who dared to mimic the human form. The  _thing_  shifted when he screamed, somehow still able to hear and comprehend his sound of horror, body turning towards him. Its bones clacked, bumping and rubbing against each other in their ill-fitting slots, ripping through the skin attempting to cover them as their host shifted to face him.

“Oh, hello there!” There was no possible reason such a happy, cheerful voice should ever come from the wretched, inhuman maw that the creature was now speaking to him with. “My name is Kevin! And yours?”

“C-C-Cecil…” The radio host managed to stutter out, gulping thickly. Hopefully, Kevin’s intentions were as benevolent as his voice.

“Cecil, hi!” Kevin raised a hand with pointed, bleach-white fingers, wiggling them in greeting. “I have to say, you look  _very_  familiar! It’s like I’m looking at my reflection here!”

He shook his head slowly, backing up a bit, trying to put at least some distance between the two of them as he looked into the empty sockets that were Kevin’s eyes. “I-I don’t look anything like you, Kevin. You look like a… monster. I look like, well, me.”

“Oh no.” That sweet voice dropped slightly into a malevolent croon as the mass of skin and bones shambled closer to the retreating man. “I  _do_  look like you, Cecil.” He spread out what could be considered as his arms, tears ripping open in his skin as he moved to reveal the bare bones beneath, lacking muscles clinging to them to facilitate movement. “Right beneath all that annoying  _skin_  of yours, you look  _exactly_  like me, all shining, clicking bones that are bleached white and pure by our marvelous desert sun.” He shuffled close enough to Cecil to touch his face with those pointed talons of his, mouth twisted into a fanged smile as he stroked his cheeks. “Mmm… I  _like_  your skin. It’s so soft and  _supple_.” He sighed dreamily, then shook his head. “But, unfortunately, dear Cecil, it’s serving only to cover up your true self, to hide your beauty beneath the secrecy of skin. Fortunately, I am here to show you your true beauty, your true self as dictated by the Smiling God!”

Cecil screamed again, hands uselessly lashing out at Kevin’s equally-useless skin as those finger bones began digging their way into his flesh.


	10. Sickness/Rashes/Boils (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Carlos' perfect hair attracting more than just eccentric small town radio hosts.

Carlos’ supposedly perfect hair was far from perfect in actuality.

The mop of hair that that reporter on the radio seemed to love so much was a magnet for strains of staphylococci bacteria, creating a breeding ground for the microorganisms along the back of his neck where his hair was the thickest and where he frustratedly scratched at himself the most when he couldn’t find a solution to a problem. With near-constant irritation and breaking of the skin brought about by his habitual scratching, he supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise when he felt the occasional boil or two sprouting up on the back of his neck.

What he didn’t expect was the Night Vale strain of the bacteria being significantly more different than the strain he dealt with all the time outside of the strange little town.

He noticed it as soon as he woke up, a persistent, pressing wave of pain covering the back of his neck wherever it made contact with the pillow. Groaning, he sat up, moving a hand to gently probe the back of his neck before immediately hissing and drawing it away when it just caused him more pain, though not before he felt several bumps where the skin should have been perfectly smooth.

Huffing, he slid out of bed and wandered over to the bathroom, making sure to take his phone with him. Once there, he faced away from the mirror and pointed his phone at himself, using the front camera to see his reflection.

He dropped his phone as soon as he caught a glimpse of it.

Quickly falling to his knees, he picked it back up before standing up again, making sure not to drop it so he could get an actual good look at his neck this time.

There, taking residence on his neck was a swarm of angry red boils, all looking as though every last swollen bump was ready to burst and let their pus payload ooze out. Wincing, he lightly pressed the fingers of his free hand against them again, stopping as the thin membranes holding back all that horrible pus trembled beneath his touch in warning. For now, he relegated himself to making sure that there would be no more contact to the back of his neck, making absolute sure that the pustules wouldn’t burst any time soon.

Later, when he got to the lab, he just  _had_  to run some tests on this new ailment.


	11. Drowning (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Carlos taking Cecil on a trip to go swimming in a lake and it all goes horribly wrong.

Carlos had promised him that it would be nice. He promised that it would be a pleasant experience for the both of them, something different from the monotony of dry, dry Night Vale. He promised him that, despite the fact it was going to be something different, it was going to be entirely safe.

What Carlos hadn’t thought of when he promised all these things was whether or not Cecil could actually swim.

It was cold and wet and dark, so horribly, terribly dark. Night Vale was dark, yes, but not like this, never like this. Night Vale was dark in the sense that a womb is, warm and familiar in an unfamiliar way, always comforting even if Cecil didn’t know exactly why. This was awful, claustrophobic cold, brutally crushing him and smothering his mind and body with its all-encompassing presence. It surrounded him entirely, pressing against him, demanding access with its frigid pressure.

So he let it in, opening his mouth wide and letting that icy presence flow and pool inside him, air evacuating from his lungs as he allowed it inside.

And then his head burst free from the horrible, smothering presence and he gasped, coughing out cold lake water while trying to wheeze in as much air as he possibly could.

“Cecil! Are you alright?! Talk to me!” Carlos’ frantic words drifted through his oxygen-starved mind lazily at first, then becoming clearer, sharper, the more breaths he managed to take in.

“Y-yeah…” Cecil managed to choke out, turning his head to nuzzle into Carlos’ bare chest, still trying to get his breathing rate back to normal. “I think I’m fine…”

Carlos sighed in relief, settling the two of them down on the muddy bottom of the lake he had persuaded Cecil to go swimming in, now only waist-deep in water after retrieving the radio host from the depths. “Good. Why didn’t you tell me you needed water wings or a lifejacket or something?”

He pouted, huffing stubbornly against Carlos’ chest. “Because what  _adult_  tells their boyfriend that they need floatation devices on a nice trip to a lake?”

Tipping his head down, Carlos pecked the top of his head, smiling a bit. “This adult right here, that’s who. You wear all sorts of odd things all the time, so I promise I won’t mind you wearing little inflatable wings or a jacket. In fact, I’ll even get you whatever sort of ones you want. Deal?”

Cecil smiled as well, burying his face more firmly in Carlos’ chest. “Deal.”


	12. Natural causes (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Carlos getting way too obsessed with doing science in the desert otherworld.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been away from Night Vale. Every time he checked his phone, the clock had seemingly randomly shifted from the last time he had looked at it, sometimes leaping forward mere minutes, sometimes days. The timestamps on his text messages and emails were also off, some extending far forward in time, some going far back. He didn’t even have his trusty watch to tell what time of day it was anymore.

As such, Carlos supposed it was no surprise that he forgot to eat or drink.

There were just so many interesting things around to examine that he simply couldn’t spare any time to attend to such basic biological needs such as food or water. Science wouldn’t wait for him to have a bite to eat or scrounge up some water to drink. Besides, no one was around to remind him that he did indeed require nourishment to continue to do science other than Cecil texting him every so often. So, he found himself skipping out on meals and leaving his mouth parched in the pursuit of science.

The fact that food and water was difficult to come by in the strange desert he found himself trapped in only helped justify his misguided logic.

Over time—he wasn’t sure of quite how much—he began to waste away, body consuming his deposits of fat in lieu of actual food. His labcoat, once perfectly-tailored to his specifications, now hung off his skinny form and he took to keeping it buttoned up during the nighttime when it wasn’t as oppressively hot as it could be just so he wouldn’t have to see his degrading body. Even as he began to exhibit symptoms of extreme malnutrition: lack of energy, being unable to concentrate, general irritability, among other things, he continued to put science first and foremost. In fact, he seemed to throw himself even more readily into his work in order to make up for his failing body.

He was always a man obsessed with the mysteries of the scientific world and, as his ruined body slumped forward onto the unfamiliar sands in that unfamiliar world, it simply proved that he was such even up until his death.


	13. Painful transformation (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Marcus' transformation during The Debate.

Honestly, Marcus was surprised that Cecil could still even be  _thinking_ of continuing to broadcast, much less actually do it.

The debate was going so well and then that angel called and all it took was a couple of sentences from them to cause something deep within Marcus’ core to lurch, writhing and pulsing with some energy that felt dark like the crushing depths of the ocean and the serene cover of a clean, cloudless night at the same time. It radiated outwards, out to every part of his body and even past that, pooling down beneath him to rise him up off the ground with its sheer power.

He opened his eyes and he could see only darkness with the now-black, glowing orbs. He strained his ears and he could hear only the pealing of bells and the triumphant trumpeting of brass instruments. He flared his nostrils and he could smell only heavy velvet and musky herbs that humans had long-since forgotten the uses of.

His fingers, arms, limbs, his entire body cracked audibly, twisting and deforming under the amount of raw power now suddenly racing through him. They all lengthened, stretching and spiraling out from his body, far past the limits that the human body should ever be able to endure.

He was being reborn, his body being molded and pulled like a wet lump of clay in order to suit his new heavenly purpose. And it  _hurt._

He opened his mouth to scream and he could not, his vocal chords already morphing along with the rest of his body, rendering them temporarily useless.

And, even during his torturous transformation, Cecil continued to narrate, informing all of Night Vale what was becoming of dear Marcus Vansten.

Tears began to leak from his glowing eyes, dripping down to splatter and sizzle on the floor amongst the darkly divine power as his shoulder blades burst out, free of the confines of flesh. They too elongated, stretching out until they were longer than he was tall, skin, then pure golden feathers materializing to cover them.

Before his new angelic wings could even finish growing in, the power consumed his form, whisking him away from his current opponents to put him before a brand new one.


	14. Bruises/Aftermath of a fight (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about the aftermath of Cecil's meeting with Kevin during the sandstorm.

He couldn’t even properly check to see what the damage was.

Cecil had stumbled back out of the swirling vortex in the wall of his studio, away from that horrid  _wretch_  he had met in the land joining their two radio stations together. Mercifully, the portal had closed behind him, slowly dissipating until all that was there was a familiar wall, the beast locked away from reaching him again.

All that remained of the intruder that had shared his face and body was the ring of bruised flesh around his neck where he had “hugged” him, steadily purpling as he stood there, panting and staring at the spot where the portal to that hellish place had been.

Eventually, he calmed down enough to at least control his erratic breathing and shuffled over to his desk, his soaking wet shoes leaving imprints of blood on the floor with every step he took, head bowed down wearily. He sank down into his chair, focusing on just breathing in and out, supplying oxygen to his adrenaline-fueled body.

He had almost managed to calm himself completely until he saw the gore streaking across his broadcasting desk.

He recoiled from it instantly, kicking against the ground to wheel his chair away, staring wide-eyed at the red lines with disgust and shock.

That  _monster_  had been in this very booth, he had sat in the exact chair he was sitting in presently, and he had even dared to touch and utilize  _his_  radio equipment with those awful, bloodied hands of his!

Cecil balled his hands up into fists, his lips twisting into a snarl as he thought of that wretch talking to  _his_  Night Vale with that bubbly, bouncing voice, talking about hugs that were anything but.  Then, he calmed himself again, letting out a deep breath and loosing his tense muscles. No point in getting angry over it now, when Kevin wasn’t here to take his rage out on.

No, he thought as he reached for the emergency medical supplies beneath his desk, intent on using them to ease the bruises around his neck, there would be no point in wasting the rage when the proper recipient was not around to enjoy it.


	15. Nosebleeds/Bleeding from orifices (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Kevin being rebellious towards StrexCorp and paying for it.

There was so much blood.

Kevin wasn’t even aware that that much blood  _could_  seep out of his nose, the crimson fluid oozing out to form a steadily-growing puddle on his desk that had covered a great deal of the wood at this point. He didn’t even think his skull had all that blood in it. Maybe it was coming from his brain. Yes, he thought, lifting his fingers up to his nostrils to attempt to tide the flow of blood, it would make quite a lot of sense if this was coming from his brain.

“I apologize to everyone listening at the moment.” He said, normally cheery voice sounding nasally and woozy from the blood loss. “We are having a… situation here at the station. But, even still, I am going to broadcast the truth to you all. The  _actual_  truth.” He winced as he felt whatever Strex had put in him when they first re-educated him busily working away, trying to do its best to “fix” his mind before irreversible damage could be done.

But, even as blood began to pour from his empty eye sockets, its efforts were not enough.

“StrexCorp has been  _lying_  to us all, Desert Bluffs! The productivity, the work ethics, the _sunshine_! They say that all of these things are so wonderful and so very good for us, but they aren’t! They’re all lies! That wretched company has been feeding you lies since it first began to take over our once-little town!” And there went his ears, blood bubbling out from behind his headphones to leak down to the floor of his already-bloodied booth. Still, he continued to speak.

“They have been lying to you about the horrible, awful Smiling God, who is nowhere near as benevolent as they claim! But, they have been spreading these lies through me. I have been the one feeding those sweet sugar-coated lies to all of you out there! I am the one who has been lying to you dear listeners for all this time.” His mouth was the next to go, blood rising up from his esophagus to choke out any more traitorous words that may otherwise slip out. Despite this, as he heard furious footsteps charging their way to the booth, he managed to gurgle out one last plea to anyone in Desert Bluffs who was still listening before his head thumped forward onto the desk and his eyes fluttered shut.

“F-forgive me.”


	16. Decay (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Carlos returning from the desert otherworld in the worst way possible.

Time was strange in that desert otherworld. It was a fact that Carlos had gotten used to over the weeks or months or even  _years_  that he had been stuck in it. He had even lost track of just how long he had been gone in Night Vale terms. (Though this was quite possibly due to the fact that Night Vale time is just slightly less strange than the time in the other desert.) His phone offered no clues to it and Cecil was no help with it considering how the days of the week seemed to constantly shift and multiply. Still, he didn’t let himself worry about it too much.

That was before he finally found another old oak door.

Instantly, he flung it open, leaping through, eager to return to Night Vale—to Cecil—at last.

And he found himself stepping into a nightmare.

Where Night Vale should have been was now simply ruins, decaying skeletons of buildings bowing morosely towards the ground when they should have been shooting skywards, proud of their beautiful, weird city.

Carlos gaped as he looked around the remains of what he had grown to know as his home. The signs of natural wear and tear on the bricks, stones, bones, and various other building materials implied that he had been gone for years, if not outright decades. The blowing desert sand had worn down jagged, broken bits of buildings smooth, masses of the grainy powder migrating to take residence in the structures themselves over time.

Even with the ruined state of Night Vale, Carlos could still recognize some things.

There was the neon sign of the Arby’s, now half-buried in the sand, resting beside the pole that once supported it. There was the ruined city hall, its roof caved in and miniscule scraps of the black velvet that had previously covered it come night still stuck in the wreck. From somewhere off to his right, he heard the tolling of the invisible, teleporting clock tower, notes discordant and strained from lack of maintenance as they rang out against the deserted city.

But then, he found something that was still  _too_  familiar, even after all of this time.

Carlos drew in a sharp breath, covering his mouth with his hands as he found the home that he and Cecil had bought together, just as ruined as the rest of Night Vale. The walls had caved in, the sand had swallowed it from the inside-out, the roof had crumbled, and yet, it was still painfully recognizable to him.

The scientist let out a choked sob, falling to his knees amidst the decayed ruins of this strange, wonderful city he had grown to love.

He was so stunned and mired in grief by the sheer realization that his home was now gone forever that he didn’t even react when a singular, yellow helicopter alighted down near him.


	17. Eye gore (WTNV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble about Kevin's very first re-education.

They say your first re-education is always the worst.

They didn’t  _used_  to say this, of course. It was only after StrexCorp had arrived in their little town that the phrase had been picked up and ran with, slowly spreading from person to person as they were dragged, one by one, into Strex headquarters. From those already re-educated, it rang down, assuring their friends and loved ones that it would just hurt once, just a moment or two of pain and the rest of the sessions would be smiles and sunshine.

Kevin discovered that this was nothing more than a candy-coated lie.

He had been dragged into headquarters like so many others before him, howling and attempting to jerk away from the people or robots—he couldn’t tell which anymore—that held him in an iron grip to prevent escape. There, he had been pinned down to an unforgiving steel table, wrists and ankles clamped down to the metal. And then, he was blessedly left alone for a time, allowed to stew in his fear and misery and countless other emotions racing through his head.

For a time.

After that precious time passed, he was no longer alone, his new companion being a Strex re-educator, goggles and a surgical mask on him making him unable to be identified. He wielded something that looked like the medical version of an ice cream scoop, all bare, glinting steel where there should have been cheerful colors.

“Now then,” He started, staring down at the bound radio host, “radio hosts do not need such pesky things as eyes, especially when they are serving the Smiling God. They only serve to alert their hosts to horrible, awful secrets that infest this world. Besides, I’m sure that your interns would be perfectly happy to help you figure out the news without the help of your eyes.”

That scoop had been slowly bearing down on his face throughout the entirety of the re-educator’s speech and, as soon as he was finished, it suddenly stabbed downwards, embedding itself in the space between the side of his eye and the socket. He howled, writhing against his restraints as the scoop pulled at his eye, popping it out before yanking it clean from the socket entirely. As he panted and flopped back against the lab table, his now singular eye watched in a daze as the other eyeball was deposited into a jar of preservatives.

And then the scoop struck out again, cleaving his other eye out of his skull while Kevin just laid there, unable to do much more than whimper due to the sheer shock of having his eyeballs removed.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” The re-educator said, turning back to focus on Kevin after making sure both of his eyes were in their proper place in the jar, “let us proceed with the remainder of your re-education, Kevin.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and wanted to screech at me in a manner similar to socializing, then you can find my Tumblr right [here](http://catsandcomposers.tumblr.com/).


End file.
